


Split Decision

by sans_patronymic



Series: Winning Combination [4]
Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Companionable Snark, Developing Relationship, F/M, Literal Sleeping Together, Non-Explicit Sex, Three Year Gap (Dragon Ball)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-24 16:37:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20361685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sans_patronymic/pseuds/sans_patronymic
Summary: When was the last time he’d slept beside someone? Decades ago.—In which Vegeta faces some difficult choices (and fails to understand lingerie).





	Split Decision

Vegeta should not have been here. Generally speaking, he felt he should not have been on this godsforsaken mud ball at all, but, in specific, he should not have been _here_: standing in front of Bulma’s door at two in the morning, unable to decide whether to knock or to turn back.

He _should_ turn back, that much he knew. It had only been a day since their last rendezvous; there was no reason for him to be feeling the urge again so soon. How long had he gone before coming to Earth? A year. Maybe two. In all that time, he had barely even felt the desire to pleasure himself. Now, here he was, wanting again after twenty-four hours. Less than that, if he was honest; he’d been thinking about her all day, about her smell, the touch of her skin, the way her hair slipped through his fingers like silk. He’d been unable to escape the thought of her no matter how he tried, even with the gravity up so high it was difficult to breathe.

Vegeta slumped back against the wall. They’d been at it for weeks, ever since he’d let her get the better of him in the Gravity Chamber. Amusing at first, but now it was becoming a need. That was dangerous. This woman was a distraction and he was letting himself fall for it. He should turn around, go to bed, and tomorrow he would push himself until he forgot what thoughts were—that was the solution. Only, as soon as he decided this, the door opened.

Bulma stepped out into the hall, startled at the sight of him, and then relaxed.

“Oh,” she said, “It’s you.”

What was the word she used for moments like this? Awkward.

“Are you just… hanging out in the hallway?”

“So what if I am?”

Bulma shrugged and leaned against the doorframe. “Because it kinda looks like you were coming to see me.”

“Pft.”

“Right, of course. Silly me. You’re obviously just chillin’ in the hall. Like you do.”

When she smirked at him like that, Vegeta wished she would just eviscerate him and get it over with. Better than leaving him trapped in a no-win solution. He could either admit his weakness, or forgo her company for the evening, and neither of those options interested him. He was a fool of his own making.

He had almost started to leave, when he noticed what she was wearing. Something short and billowy and far too mesh-like to be comfortable. A far cry from the casual nighttime attire he was accustomed to seeing her in. Something special and clearly not designed for sleeping. He smiled at the realization.

“And where are you going at this time of night?” he asked.

For just a fraction of a second, Bulma’s shoulders hunched. A flare of insecurity. He admired how quickly she could shrug it off, marveled at the practiced haughtiness which filled her eyes.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” she declared, “but I was going to get a glass of water.”

“Do you always wear such impractical garments to get a glass of water?”

“Why not?”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were dressed up for someone.”

“Maybe I am.”

“Who?”

Bulma didn’t answer. She met his gaze, her blue eyes sharp and resolute. Vegeta liked it when she looked at him like that, like she had never been afraid of anything in her whole life. They stood there for a moment, deadlocked. Then, she softened. Her lips parted, letting out a sound that was not quite a laugh and not quite a sigh.

“Are you going to come in or aren’t you?” Bulma asked.

He flicked one end of the satin ribbon that perched decoratively between her breasts. “Only if you take this ridiculous thing off.”

“It’s much more fun if you take it off for me.” Her smile was vulgarity itself. It made him throb.

“I don’t have time for fun,” he growled, “Now, get in there.”

As soon as the door was closed behind them, Vegeta pressed her back against it. He gripped her bare thighs in his hands. With his nose buried in the curve of her neck, all the lecherous thoughts which had run riot through his mind during the day came flooding back. Her rich scent intoxicated him, made his blood pound, filled him with an urgent need that started in his belly before slithering down lower. He moved his hands further up her thighs, under the frilly ensemble, fingers tracing the edges of the underwear beneath.

“Wait—“ Bulma said, trying to hold him back.

He looked down at her hands against his chest. It wouldn’t take much to brush them aside, to pin them above her head and take what he wanted. Reluctantly, he eased back. If she sent him away now, he felt the humiliation would kill him.

Bulma’s fingers toyed with the front of his shirt. “Why don’t we use the bed for once?” she asked coyly.

Not a banishment, then, but an invitation. He didn’t know what to make of that. Vegeta let himself be led to the edge of her bed. He stood there as she stripped him, taking her time to survey every inch. He had never felt so exposed as he did when her eyes were on him. He felt a warm flush spread across his cheeks.

“Sit down,” she said, nudging him towards the mattress until he obeyed.

Vegeta understood the appeal of Bulma’s strange garment a little better now: the allure of the barely concealed. With her standing before him, he could just make out the curve of her waist and the soft peaks of her nipples, half-hidden beneath the sheer fabric. He sat for a minute, admiring.

“I thought you were going to help me take this off,” she teased. There was that eviscerating smile again.

He pulled himself together enough to scoff. “Do I look like your lady’s maid?”

“Fine—I’ll do it myself.”

The straps slipped from Bulma’s shoulders, the whole garment cascading to the floor with a flutter. Her underwear soon followed and she stood before him, naked and glorious. He couldn’t help but touch her, her breasts, her stomach, the soft thicket of hair above her sex. He wanted to press on, to feel the inside of her, but she staid his hand.

“Lie back,” she said, and when he didn’t move, added, “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna bite you.”

“Why not?”

Her laugh was musical, like temple bells.

“Just lay down, you weirdo. Trust me.”

_Trust me_—a very empty evocation in his mind, but what choice did he have?

The sheets on Bulma’s bed were as soft as her skin and the same blushed color as her lips. Vegeta rested his head against the pillows. She settled astride his hips, the wet heat of her arousal slick against his own. The reality of penetration was so much better than his daydreams. Flat on his back beneath her, he could appreciate it more than ever.

This was the first time he’d laid with a woman. Not the first time he’d fucked, obviously, but a soldier did everything on his feet, even _that_. Up against a wall? Yes. Bent over a table? Yes. With the artificial gravity turned off? Once, and it wasn’t as exciting as it sounded. But never before had a woman invited him into her bed. In fact, they tended not to invite him anywhere, he usually invited himself and tried to show them enough of a good time to ease his conscience.

Bulma was different. She wanted him and told him so. She was unashamed in a way that embarrassed almost as much as it excited him. He liked the sounds she made: her cries of pleasure, the way she commanded—now faster, now slower, now there, _right there_—the way she begged, the fact that when she choked out the word ‘please’ it meant ‘more’ and not ‘less’.

He liked the warm, velvet feel of being inside her. Her skin against his skin. It was like lightening in his veins, like the first time the _ki_ manifest in his hands. He pulled her down against his chest, his hips taking over the rhythm of their union. He wanted to be close to her. Even with their bodies flush, he wanted to be closer still. He wanted them to melt and fuse, to become something singular and new. He came deep inside her, dreaming of dissolving into her, willing it, like a secret wish.

Afterwards, Bulma stretched out next to him, her contented sigh its own reward. An odd heaviness settled over him as he laid there. This must have been what people meant, when they said they were spent. It was not the same as being tired from battle—no hum of adrenaline, no aching fatigue—this was languid, syrupy, like time stretching around the edges of a black hole. Vegeta struggled to keep himself awake. He should get up. Get up, get dressed, go to bed—his bed—and prepare for tomorrow. He sighed at the thought.

“You can stay here tonight, if you want,” Bulma said, suddenly.

Stay here? And do what, exactly? He tried to ask, but all that came out was a tired, inquisitive hum.

“Unless you're one of those people who can only sleep alone.”

“You… wish for me to sleep here?”

“Only if you want to.”

Vegeta consider this. When was the last time he’d slept beside someone? Decades ago. He could remember, when he was very small, on the absolutely bleakest of nights, he had been permitted to fall asleep curled on top of Nappa’s chest. He would tuck his tail between his legs, the tip of it stroking his own cheek for comfort. Beneath him, the rise and fall of Nappa’s breathing and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat would lull Vegeta to sleep. That had been a good feeling, like not being alone, like being safe. Was that what it would feel like to sleep beside her?

He rolled to face her, drawing the covers up around them both. How was this supposed to work? He couldn’t exactly curl up on her chest. Vegeta wrapped an arm around her waist, rested his head on her shoulder. She was such a delicate creature, in some ways. What if he held her too tightly? What if he jolted in his sleep, threw out an arm or a leg, as he sometimes did, while she was next to him? Perhaps he shouldn’t have agreed to stay.

Bulma’s voice was bright, like citrus. “I should warn you,” she said, “I’ve been accused of snoring.”

He laughed at that. What simple concerns she had.

“Are you a light sleeper?”

“What do you think?” he asked.

“I’ll bet you can hear a pin drop.”

“Probably.”

“Well... sorry in advance, then.”

His hand moved idly across her stomach. Beneath the covers, he rubbed his foot against the bottom sheet, still trying to determine which was softer: the fabric or her.

“What’s the weirdest place you’ve ever slept?” Bulma asked.

“Depends what you mean by ‘weird’.”

“Unexpected, I guess.”

Did this count? Probably not, or she wouldn’t have asked. He dredged his memories for something worth telling.

“I once spent a night wedged between the exhaust nozzle and the engine casing of a transport rocket.” If he had woken up ten minutes later, he would have been incinerated.

“Why’d you do that?”

“I didn’t want to be found.”

“By who?”

“By the people who were looking for me,” he said, perfunctorily.

“Fair enough. Did it work?”

“More or less.”

Why was he telling her this? Answering her questions just led Bulma to more questions, he knew that already. Better to redirect her attention. Change the subject.

“You.”

“Me, what?” Bulma asked.

“Same question.”

“Oh,” she said. She hummed thoughtfully, one hand carding through his hair. It wasn’t silken, like hers; his hair was coarse, bristly, but she didn’t seem to mind. “The weirdest place I’ve ever slept was probably in the middle of a baseball diamond.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s like a sports arena. With a field in the middle. Grass and stuff.”

He chuckled at the thought of her, the goddess of technology and comfort, sleeping in a field of grass.

“Why?”

“Well...” she hesitated, “He—the guy I was seeing at the time—he plays baseball. So, we, you know, fucked in the middle of the field one night for kicks and fell asleep. Until the sprinkler system came on, that is. Pretty funny, in retrospect.”

“All anyone seems to do on this planet is fuck and eat. No wonder Earthlings are so unaccomplished.”

“Hey, I didn’t hear you complaining earlier,” Bulma pointed out, “And the only gripe you make about our food is when there isn’t enough.”

“Hmph.”

She was right, of course. There was a dangerous peacefulness about this place. Placid weather, good food, everyone eager to bask in each other's company. It was easy to forget about the approaching threat, about his goals, so tempting to give himself up to indulgence. Vegeta spent most of his days trying to resist it. Tonight, however, he didn’t feel up to the fight.

He pressed his nose into her hair, drawing in another deep breath of her scent. Sleep needled at the edge of his consciousness. He closed his eyes and let it seep in. As he drifted off, he felt Bulma’s hand upon his face, her thumb gently stroking his cheek. A good feeling. Like not being alone. Like being safe.


End file.
